Chapter 2 - The Colonel He Never Bothered to Know
For almost eleven years, Preston believed he knew me.
He knew I drank coffee without sugar.
He knew I slept on the left side of the bed.
He knew I hated roses because the smell reminded me of funeral homes.
He knew I could assemble school lunches in seven minutes and calm Sophie through a nightmare without turning on the bedroom light.
But he had never understood the most important thing about me.
Preston knew the wife.
He never bothered learning the woman.
The photograph on my phone had been taken outside a restaurant.
Brielle stood beside a man in a charcoal coat.
His face was turned halfway toward the camera.
But there was no mistaking him.
Grant Mercer.
Forty-one.
Financial consultant.
Longtime business associate of Wallace Hale.
And Brielle’s former brother-in-law.
I read the message again.
Before you leave the country, there is something you need to know about Brielle Mercer.
Brielle Mercer.
I had known that was her surname.
What I had never known was the exact connection between her and Grant.
My phone buzzed again.
A second message.
She was married to Grant’s younger brother, Evan.
Then a third.
Ask Preston why he never mentioned it.
I felt something cold move through my stomach.
Madeline appeared beside me.
“Mom?”
I locked the screen.
“Yes?”
“Are we still leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
She studied me with those serious brown eyes that had always made adults underestimate her.
“Dad knows?”
“He signed the agreement.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I nearly smiled.
Nine years old.
Already better at cross-examination than most junior officers I had supervised.
“He knows you’re relocating with me.”
“Does he know it’s today?”
I paused.
“No.”
Madeline looked toward Sophie, who was coloring beside the window.
Then she lowered her voice.
“Is that why he didn’t come say goodbye?”
There are questions mothers want to answer honestly but cannot answer cruelly.
I touched her shoulder.
“Your father made his own choices today.”
Her mouth tightened.
“I heard him last night.”
My hand stopped.
“He called Grandma Eleanor.”
“What did you hear?”
Madeline looked embarrassed.
“He said after the baby comes, things will finally feel normal.”
I felt anger rise.
Not hot.
Cold.
The kind I trusted.
“What else?”
“He said boys are easier.”
She looked away.
“And Grandpa said Dad finally had someone to carry the name.”
A nine-year-old should not understand what those words mean.
Madeline did.
“Am I less family because I’m a girl?”
“No.”
My answer came instantly.
“Never.”
“What about Sophie?”
“Never.”
“Then why does Dad act like we are?”
That question followed me onto the aircraft hours later.
It followed me as Sophie pressed her face to the window.
It followed me while Madeline pretended to sleep.
It followed me across the Atlantic.
And it followed Preston too, although I didn’t know it yet.
Back home, the Hale celebration had collapsed before lunchtime.
According to what I learned later, Wallace had reserved a private room at an upscale restaurant near the medical center.
Blue balloons.
A ridiculous silver sign reading:
WELCOME, HALE HEIR.
Eleanor had brought baby clothes embroidered with the Hale initials.
Preston arrived nearly twenty minutes late after the ultrasound.
Alone.
Wallace reportedly stood immediately.
“Where’s Brielle?”
Preston placed the ultrasound photographs on the table.
Nobody spoke.
Eleanor picked one up.
“What happened?”
“The doctor says she’s further along.”
Wallace shrugged.
“Doctors estimate.”
“Four weeks.”
The room changed.
Preston stared at his father.
“I was in Germany.”
Wallace’s expression hardened.
“So?”
“So I wasn’t here.”
Eleanor lowered herself slowly into a chair.
“Did you ask her?”
“She says the doctor is wrong.”
“Could he be?”
“Maybe.”
But Preston already knew what the answer felt like.
Possibly.
Not comfortably.
Wallace ordered everyone to calm down.
Then Brielle arrived.
Crying.
She insisted conception dates could be unreliable.
She insisted stress had affected her memory.
She insisted Preston was the father.
Then Grant Mercer walked into the restaurant.
That was the part nobody expected.
Apparently Wallace had invited him to discuss a development contract after the family lunch.
Grant entered.
Saw Brielle.
Stopped.
And Brielle went white.
Preston noticed.
So did Eleanor.
Grant recovered first.
“Brielle.”
“Grant.”
Wallace frowned.
“You two know each other?”
Neither answered quickly enough.
And that silence did more damage than any confession could have.
Preston looked from Brielle to Grant.
“How do you know her?”
Grant adjusted his cuff.
“She used to be married to my brother.”
Preston stared at Brielle.
“You told me your ex-husband’s family lived in California.”
“They do.”
Grant corrected her.
“Evan lives in California.”
Another silence.
Preston’s face changed.
“Why didn’t you tell me Grant was his brother?”
Brielle began crying harder.
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
Grant looked uncomfortable.
Then Preston asked the question that caused Wallace Hale to stand so quickly his chair fell backward.
“Were you sleeping with her?”
Grant’s expression froze.
Brielle whispered, “Preston…”
“Were you?”
Grant said nothing.
That was answer enough.
By the time our plane landed at the staging base overseas, Preston had called me seventeen times.
I did not answer.
Instead, I stood in a quiet terminal beneath fluorescent lights while Sophie slept against my shoulder.
A senior officer approached.
“Colonel Hartwell.”
“General.”
Major General Evelyn Rhodes shook my hand.
“Welcome back.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Her eyes went to my daughters.
“They holding up?”
“They will.”
Rhodes knew more about my marriage than most people did.
Not details.
Just enough.
She had once warned me that surviving hard assignments could make it easy to tolerate too much at home.
At the time, I had defended Preston.
Now I understood what she meant.
“You ready for this?” she asked.
I looked through the windows at the dark runway beyond.
The assignment ahead would be demanding.
International coordination.
Logistics.
Security.
Command responsibility involving thousands of personnel.
It was work Preston would have called paperwork.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Rhodes smiled faintly.
“I knew you would be.”
My phone buzzed again.
This time I looked.
Preston had sent a message.
Grant admitted he and Brielle slept together.
Another arrived before I could react.
It happened around the time I was in Germany.
Then:
Please call me.
I stared at those words.
A few months earlier, I would have called immediately.
I would have calmed him.
Helped him reason.
Helped him survive the humiliation.
That was what I did.
I stabilized crises.
But something had changed at 10:21 that morning.
Take the girls.
I have a son coming now.
I switched off the phone.
Three days passed before I heard Preston’s voice again.
By then he had learned two things.
First, the paternity test would have to wait unless Brielle agreed to prenatal testing.
Second, I was not returning home anytime soon.
His message began quietly.
“Lena, I know you’re angry.”
I almost deleted it.
Then he continued.
“I went by the house.”
A pause.
“It’s empty.”
Another pause.
“The girls’ rooms are empty.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“Where did you take them?”
I listened in silence.
“You said you were relocating. I thought you meant Virginia. Maybe Germany for a few months. I didn’t know…”
He inhaled sharply.
“Lena, I didn’t know you were actually leaving.”
I finally called him.
He answered immediately.
“Where are my daughters?”
The wording irritated me.
“Safe.”
“What country?”
“I’m not providing operational information.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m a stranger.”
“You became a stranger when you told me to take them because you had a son coming.”
“I was upset.”
“You were happy.”
Silence.
“I want to talk to Madeline and Sophie.”
“Then call them at the scheduled time provided in the custody agreement.”
“What scheduled time?”
I closed my eyes.
“Page fourteen.”
He said nothing.
Of course he had never read page fourteen.
“Lena…”
“What?”
“I made a mistake.”
“No, Preston.”
I looked through the open doorway toward my daughters.
“You made several choices.”
He whispered, “Is Brielle’s baby Grant’s?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you know about them?”
“No.”
“Someone sent me photos.”
That caught my attention.
“What photos?”
“Brielle and Grant.”
My pulse changed.
“Who sent them?”
“I don’t know.”
Neither did I.
Then Preston said something that made every instinct I had sharpen.
“The person also sent me a picture of you.”
I went still.
“What picture?”
“You leaving the military facility yesterday.”
My voice became very quiet.
“Send it to me.”
Seconds later, the image appeared.
Me.
Madeline.
Sophie.
Walking toward secured transportation.
Photographed from outside the perimeter.
My marriage disappeared from my thoughts instantly.
So did Brielle.
I became a colonel again.
“Preston, do not respond to that number.”
“What?”
“Do not text them. Do not call them. Do not send them anything.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever is sending these photographs isn’t just watching Brielle.”
I enlarged the image.
Someone had been watching my daughters.
And for the first time since the divorce, I felt something more dangerous than anger.
May you like
I felt fear.
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